


the art of being empty is simple.

by henryclerval



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: During Canon, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, One-Sided Attraction, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Self-Loathing, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, warm up fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1602977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henryclerval/pseuds/henryclerval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His name is James Buchanan Barnes and at one point in his life he had been a promising young man; strapping and clever, a silver tongue and an iron fist driven by a righteous power bigger than himself. He’d been a mess of frustration and self-loathing before he’d been sculpted, molded, spun into something that had a little worth by somebody who shouldn’t have even given him the time of day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the art of being empty is simple.

His name is James Buchanan Barnes. 

His name is James Buchanan Barnes and at one point in his life he had been a promising young man; strapping and clever, a silver tongue and an iron fist driven by a righteous power bigger than himself. He’d been a mess of frustration and self-loathing before he’d been sculpted, molded, spun into something that had a little worth by somebody who shouldn’t have even given him the time of day. 

_You’ll be okay_ and the words had been foreign coming out of his mouth, interrupted when he had needed to spit out blood against the brick wall. _You’ll be great, if you never instigate them again._

And that maelstrom in the shape of a wheezing, heaving young man just shrugged his shoulders. Told him that those guys didn’t deserve to get left alone, they keep spewing their mouths like that. That somebody needs to stand up to guys like that and it may as well be him. 

Bucky felt his heart thud in his chest like it hadn’t before: a sudden wash of adrenaline that couldn’t be chalked up to the groan of his muscles or the cuts in his mouth. But he’s sure to choke it down, smother it carefully, because the way that he’s being looked at is the first in his life—like he’s maybe got some worth in his bones, like maybe somebody finally sees something in him. 

His name is James Buchanan Barnes and as he lays dazed and restrained, all he can think about is Steve. 

He thinks about Steve and his eyes, how he could probably pick them out of an entire row of pictures of big blues. He’d know them from lookalikes, could identify that concentration of soul from miles and miles away. He thinks about how he’s seen them in daylight and how they shine against candlelight—when they couldn’t pay the electricity bill, not dotted with romance but a desperation—he’s seen the few times they were bloodshot with tears, sleeplessness, surrounded by dark bags that had taken all his willpower not to kiss away. 

He thinks about those eyes even when he’s looking into them. Thinking about what Steve could be daydreaming about, what it must be like to see the world in different shapes and colors and be able to translate that to paper. He thinks about what Steve sees when Steve looks at him. Is it something good? Is it something as full of hot air as he feels? 

He thinks about Steve and how his hair is always falling into his eyes, how his ears aren’t symmetrical and the freckles that dot across his face. He thinks of his sharp, thin jaw and wonders how many times this is, that he’s thought about how nice it is to look at Steve, to see his mouth in action between the bitter resentment he has for how rude people can be and the face-splitting grin he’s got for humanity. 

Bucky thinks about how much he’s looked at his face, when Steve’s aware of it or not, and felt the guilt swirl in his stomach until he thinks he’s going to vomit. He thinks about how little it matters now—whether his intentions have been pure this entire time or not, but he thinks he must have some good in him. Even if it hadn’t been there before a lifetime of Steve Rogers must have instilled some goodness in him. 

And he thinks about how good he hasn’t been. Thinks about how he’s managed to taint Steve in his mind time and time again and no matter how hard he tries, there’s little he could’ve done to avoid Steve—not when his life had revolved around him, had centered on him, to the point where it had even scared Bucky. 

Because men don’t think of other men like that. There’s no reason for him to wonder what it’d be like to feel a bit of stubble against his cheek when he kisses somebody. His thoughts should be elsewhere. He should think about tight skirts and plump lips and it isn’t as though Bucky doesn’t appreciate or enjoy those things—those dames—but he’s left laying awake at night thinking about the opposite. Thinks about what it might be like to be pushed into the bed, to have the hard roll of muscle pressed upon him, maybe be on his knees for all he cares. 

Men are coworkers, colleagues, neighbors, friends; Bucky has no business thinking of men otherwise. He has no business of bringing Steve into this, down here, where he sometimes tries to suffocate himself in his pillow because his skin burns so hot for something he can’t have and he may as well die if this is going to stick with him. Maybe if he kicks the bucket he can take this poison out of the world, stop making Steve into something filthy. 

His name is James Buchanan Barnes and he’s imagined the look of all-consuming disgust in his best friend’s eyes a million times. 

Strapped where he is, the only thing keeping his focus off from the scorched oil they put in his veins is the thought that maybe if he gets out he’ll get to see the day that Steve is married, when he’s finally wrenched from Bucky’s grasp, and maybe then the stupid hope will die in his heart. The only means he has to combat the physical pains are to trump them with the image of Steve, combed and neat in an ill-fitting suit, sliding a ring onto a girl’s finger in front of God and everyone. 

Injections that make bugs crawl under his skin, the extreme temperatures that stretch the limits of human flesh, the pounds of pressure they tested on his bones—it’s all child’s play compared to that. 

The drugs they pump into his system make it worse. Then he can hear how Steve’s voice gets all tight when he tumbles out an _I do_ and how he’s sure enough to pull the lucky girl forward, kiss her right, flash the biggest smile Bucky’s way. He can see, in that second, the light of the world behind Steve’s eyes—bright and round and blinding to the point where Bucky doesn’t have to put as much effort into faking a smile because no one’s looking at him anyway. 

Everyone’s entranced just like him. Swept up in the moment, clapping and cheering and throwing rice because the war is over, everything’s fine. Steve is married and everything’s fine. He’s got a wife and two kids and makes a lot of money from his illustrations and everything’s fine. He reads the paper and goes to church and buys a new car and everything’s fine. He forgets about Bucky, about their one bedroom apartment and the way that Bucky would hold him in the middle of winter and pass it off as extra warmth, how they’d hold hands to keep from shaking, and everything’s fine. 

His name is James Buchanan Barnes and everything’s fine. 

He thinks of Steve’s eyes and the wrinkles that would form around them—the instruments are pried out of his body; he’s left on the slab cold and alone and he can’t even appreciate it—the bags underneath them, the crows feet that would highlight how much Steve laughs despite his tendency to get angry about everything. 

Bucky can imagine them perfectly: decades down the line when Steve’s hair greys and his eyes stay that shiny blue. The bluest blue that he’s ever seen. Bluer than the sky that hangs above his head and bluer than any robin’s egg that he’d found during childhood exploration. So blue that when Bucky thinks about what to call it his head swims and he gets this dreamy feeling in his chest for hours after. 

His name is James Buchanan Barnes and it takes a moment for him to realize that he’s not imagining Steve’s eyes anymore—the clarity and sharpness of them shred through the haze of a morphine dose that had probably been meant to kill him. The air catches in his lungs as they come into focus: the prettiest eyes he’s seen, he’d ever seen, he’ll ever see in his life and he can’t manage forced falsehoods in his current state of mind there on the table, straps being torn off him. 

His name is James Buchanan Barnes and he can’t help the smile on his lips, the only word that’s been on his mind for lifetimes let out in a breath.

_Steve._


End file.
